Comments on The Reluctant Widow by Georgette Heyer

I closed this book with a sigh. It was a heartily sighed sigh. It was a swoony sigh. Well, I had just finished a Georgette Heyer novel, so I suppose it was the appropriate sigh.

This is not a book you tell an Oxford don you're reading. It's not one they'd understand. You wouldn't tell your intellectually snobby friends either. They'd tease you.

But do not make the mistake of thinking this is a badly written book. No, no, dear reader; this is a picture painted with skill and clarity. I recognize these characters. Some might say they're recycled from other works of fiction on screen or even the page. They might be right. They probably are. But it's not easy to reconstruct in print a celluloid character. And even if other writers' pens have created such personalities, the subsequent author can't just say, "You know, this character is a fop. Think Stephen Fry as Oscar Wilde." The author has to apply the dyed oils to the canvas with dexterity. And Heyer does this well. Take the character Nicky, an endearing upper-crust university student more interested in fun than scholarship. He's a cousin, of sorts, to the title character and, here, gives her a compliment.

"By Jove, Cousin Elinor, if that gown is not the most bang-up thing I ever saw! You look all the crack!"

Now, c'mon. Don't you know just by this utterance what sort of character, or caricature, we're dealing with? Yeah, it's over the top. And I certainly don't know if anyone ever spoke like that, but it does paint that picture, does it not?

The Reluctant Widow is a Regency mystery with a touch of romance about a woman who becomes entangled with a likeable upperclass family when she gets into the wrong carriage at the inn where her stage-coach has dropped her off. Thus begins a story of humor and intrigue and some ineptitude (Nicky has a big role.)

The book, written in the 1940s, may or may not be accurate when it comes to language, but the author does seem to know a couple of things about the Regency period, dropping phrases like phaeton and nuncheon, and sometimes using the singular form of the verb 'do' in constructions where today we would use 'does.'

There are copious descriptions of meals and one does not mind spending a day with the personages populating the book. They are ensconced in the cozy estate of Highnoons and seem to enjoy each other's company. I did want, however, more chemistry between the two who are meant for each other, and some romance sooner, too. That, in my opinion was desperately wanting.

Why then did I sigh so swooningly at its conclusion? Well, because that's when Heyer unveiled the real romantic parts. Don't get excited; it's just a proposal. But it's lovely. I would have liked more adventure, too, than the brief bit we get, similarly, toward the end of the book. (The widow can drive a phaeton like Danica Patrick drives a race car.) And I have some scruples about the ethics of the main characters after the resolution of the mystery but, remember, they're likeable.

It's not surprising that Heyer has a reputation of being a bodice-ripping writer. The heroine's "bosom" had already "swelled" twice by page 75. But this was to show her indignation and nothing else. An odd way to express it, but whatever. If you like this brand of word play, you might well, indeed, enjoy The Reluctant Widow.

You just might find it's a bang-up thing.

Thanks to Sourcebooks for this complementary review copy.

Rambling post

Here begins the ramble:

I'm reading and reading and reading. And yet, there's so much more to read! Sort of a luxurious problem to have, really. I'm not complaining, just trying to muster up the speedy reading of my youthful days from so many, many years ago. I could wax poetic about the slowing-down that my brain has done in its adulthood, but I'm not in the mood to rhapsodize about minutia, oddly enough.

I just sort of felt like chatting about some of the books I've got going now. I'm feeling pretty solid now, like one of those tennis players steadily winning game after game within a set and pumping fist victoriously in air rallying herself onwards. I mean I just finished The Journal of Helene Berr and, before that, a foreign language book (yea!), and prior to that Giants by John Stauffer; so, I'm on a roll. Game won.

Right now, I'm reading My Lady of Cleves, A Novel of Henry VIII and Anne of Cleves by Margaret Campbell Barnes and my first ever Georgette Heyer, The Reluctant Widow! I shall soon have the latter finished and ready for comment. Shortly thereafter, My Lady, will be appearing on these "pages" with its own commentary. These two were review copies from Sourcebooks and things are looking pretty good for them. I'm very intrigued by developments in Widow, (is it a ghost story?), and am finding the account of Elinor's settling in to her new home quite pleasingly cozy.

So, what else is there? Dum-di-dum (taps fingers while thinking) - Oh yes! I haven't discussed my like/dislike relationship with used books yet. I tend to love to go into used book fairs, buy a bunch, and then end up giving them away since I love a clean, crisp book rather than dog-eared copies that who knows who has taken into the bathroom with them. Please understand, I think it's wonderful that people recycle their books and that out-of-print copies are available in used bookstores and through ABEbooks, etc. But I'm a bit squeamish and that squeamishness generally ends up getting the better of me. There are exceptions of course like the one dollar Gone With the Wind I got from the year it came out, though it's not worth anything. Believe me, I checked.

Despite, these ambivalent feelings I could not resist buying two used books for one dollar each the other night. One, called Lenten Lands, by Douglas Gresham, is about CS Lewis. The other, is Charles J. Shields Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee, which I've been wanting to read. My justification for these purchases was that if I were to take them out of the library I would probably end up owing a fine of more than the dollar I paid for each and, thus, good economics allowed me to freely buy them with good conscience. And, judging by my recent $7.50 library fines, I was right.

About those fines, I feel so ashamed. What a waste. There is, at least, one consolation. And that is that the fines go to that wonderful establishment so important to individuals and societies in so very many different ways, the public library. So, instead of being ashamed, maybe I can consider myself a noble patron of the arts because of my fines? Yeah, I'm going with that.

So, now I've extolled the virtues of the public library system, supported it financially, discussed literature and used an athletic metaphor. Job done tonight.

Here ends the ramble.